ure he was right in his
conjecture.

"Come in," was Ruth's greeting.

"No. We just wanted to say a word. I noticed you've not been out. Do you
know--all about it?"

She gave them a strange glance.

"Any of the women folks been in?" added Joe.

"Hester ran over. She told me through the window. Then I barred my door
to keep the other women out."

"What for?" asked Joe, curiously.

"Please come in," she said, in reply.

They entered, and she closed the door after them. The change that came
over her then was the loosing of restraint.

"Joe--what will they do with Mary?" she queried, tensely.

The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. "Hang her!" he
rejoined in brutal harshness.

"O Mother of Saints!" she cried, and her hands went up.

"You're sorry for Mary, then?" asked Joe, bluntly.

"My heart is breaking for her."

"Well, so's Shefford's," said the Mormon, huskily. "And mine's kind of
damn shaky."

Ruth glided to Shefford with a woman's swift softness.

"You've been my good--my best friend. You were hers, too. Oh, I know!
... Can't you do something for her?"

"I hope to God I can," replied Shefford.

Then the three stood looking from one to the other, in a strong and
subtly realizing moment drawn together.

"Ruth," whispered Joe, hoarsely, and then he glanced fearfully around,
at the window and door, as if listeners were there. It was certain
that his dark face had paled. He tried to whisper more, only to fail.
Shefford divined the weight of Mormonism that burdened Joe Lake then.
Joe was faithful to a love for Fay Larkin, noble in friendship to
Shefford, desperate in a bitter strait with his own manliness, but the
power of that creed by which he had been raised struck his lips mute.
For to speak on meant to be false to that creed. Already in his heart he
had decided, yet he could not voice the thing.

"Ruth"--Shefford took up the Mormon's unfinished whisper--"if we plan to
save her--if we need you--will you help?"

Ruth turned white, but an instant and splendid fire shone in her eyes.

"Try me," she whispered back. "I'll change places with her--so you can
get her away. They can't do much to me."

Shefford wrung her hands. Joe licked his lips and found his voice:
"We'll come back later." Then he led the way out and Shefford followed.
They were silent all the way back to camp.

Nas Ta Bega sat in repose where they had left him, a thoughtful, somber
figure. Shefford went directly to